


why don't we collide the spaces that divide us

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, especially in April, literally no other bruins are in this, set during the 18-19 season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 12:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18623728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “He liked kissing Brad, and he liked winning, and over time those two things had become synonymous. Brad’s lips tasted like victory, and Patrice had always chased wins to the ends of the earth.”





	why don't we collide the spaces that divide us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/gifts).



> Dedicated and gifted to Alex for picking it off my list last night of things I was thinking about writing. It inspired me to get this done, and I'm so thankful because I fucking love this piece. Thanks for your endless support. Warning that I wrote this in the middle of the Bruins seasons against CBJ, and I worked VERY hard to get it done before game two, so I wouldn't have to address any of the events in this fic. Title taken from Superposition by Young the Giant.

Patrice doesn’t know when it started, this tradition that he and Brad seem to have. Except he does actually. He knows _exactly_ when he first felt Brad’s lips on his.

 

.

 

**_October_ ** _._

 

They’d won, they’d fucking won, and it felt grounding. Season beginnings were always nerve wracking. Months of not playing and just enough time for commentators and fans alike to put far too much stock into how the first couple of games went. Yesterday’s game had been a clusterfuck, and Patrice knew that endless over analyzation was inevitable.

 

But beating the Sabres had been enough to show to everyone, to prove that the Bruins were expecting a banner year. (If Patrice is being honest, he expects one every year).

 

And Patrice had scored tonight, which really, it doesn’t matter who scores as long as someone does. He’s happy to provide an assist or even cheer from across the ice as long as they win in the end, but there is a certain satisfaction in knowing it was him who’d helped out the team.

 

Brad had been more excited than anyone, hanging off of Patrice for most of the celebration, just on the edge of tipsy and mumbling “Saint” reverently every so often.

 

When it becomes clear that the next drink Brad grabs is going to take him past tipsy to drunk, Patrice intercepts it.

 

“Let’s get you home, yeah bud?” Patrice says, and it’s not really a question.

 

It’s not the first time Patrice has done this by a long shot. It’s not that Brad doesn’t know his own limits, it’s just that Patrice maybe likes the limits to be set a bit lower than necessary. And taking his best friend home wasn’t exactly a chore.

 

By the time they’d gotten to Brad’s place, he’s sobered up completely, although it doesn’t seem to stop him from singing along to the radio.

 

Bergy looks over at him, jokingly asks, “Need me to get you inside?”

 

“Yeah that’d be nice.”

 

Brad’s answer catches him off guard for a second, but they do that sometimes, hang out after games when they’re both still too wound from a win to be able to sleep.

 

What they most certainly haven’t done before, what he definitely was not expecting was Brad’s mouth against his own the minute they cross the threshold. 

 

Patrice can’t help but to reel back in surprise and he catches a glimpse of Brad’s expression- a bit scared and panicked, but then he catches a glimpse of Brad’s lips- pink and a bit wet, and immediately pulls him back in.

 

They manage to make it to Brad’s couch and make out like teenagers for an hour until Bergy starts to get tired.

 

“Should I, um, go then?” Patrice asks, unsure in a way he’s not used to feeling around Brad ever.

 

“Nah, let’s watch a film. I think they have the new Jurassic Park on pay per view.”

 

Bergy’s not sure how early into the film he fell asleep, but considering he doesn’t remember seeing a single dinosaur, it was probably embarrassing early.

 

In the morning, Brad makes pancakes like he normally does when Bergy spends the night. They eat and chat about normal stuff and Patrice goes home feeling good that last night’s events haven’t hurt their friendship.

 

He’s ready to chalk the make out session up to a one night thing fueled by tiredness and the high of a win, and he manages to push it completely out of his brain.

 

.

 

That is until the next Monday when they beat the Senators and Brad pulls him away from the crowd in the locker room, tucks him into a corner where he kisses him breathless. It can’t have lasted more than a couple minutes, but it’s enough to make painstakingly clear that last week’s events hadn’t been a one time thing.

 

Which Patrice is fine with. He and Brad’s friendship had grown and changed for the past 7+ years now, and somehow Brad’s tongue down his throat felt like a natural progression. Besides, it was nice and Patrice tends to not think too hard about good things.

 

(He also, very much does not think about the crush he’s had on Brad for the majority of their friendship. He’s been ignoring it for this long, he can ignore it while kissing Brad too.)

 

They beat the Oilers and the Red Wings and each time, Brad gets Patrice alone at some point afterwards to make out, and Patrice is starting to expect it when they lose to the Flames.

 

Both he and Brad had scored, but it hadn’t been enough. Patrice is bummed, of course, he’s never been great with losing, but he knows it’s just one game.

  
Brad still hangs around him after the game for a few minutes, but he never pulls Patrice aside.

 

Their next two games are fucking bitter, two losses in overtime that feel like a kick in the gut. Brad still isn’t kissing him, which really, is fine because while it was nice, Patrice cares more about their friendship than anything else. He assumes that Brad has gotten over whatever instinct made him want to kiss Patrice in the first place.

 

It’s when they beat the Senators, and Patrice is high off a victory, cheeks flushed and beaming, and Brad crawls onto his lap in the driver’s seat to mouth at his neck that it clicks in Patrice’s brain and _oh._

 

Brad does want to kiss him, but only when they win. Patrice can roll with that.

 

.

 

**_April_ **

 

 

 

Brad had gone the whole season and hadn’t let nearly any wins get by without keeping up their tradition.

 

Brad was always who initiated it, and Patrice liked that arrangement because then he always knew that Brad wanted it, never had to worry about him feeling obligated or the fact that Brad has a tendency to do whatever Patrice wants if Patrice isn’t careful about it. Although, normally that ended up with Brad eating a cuisine he secretly hates or watching a movie he doesn’t like when they’re hanging out, not unwillingly kissing him, Patrice still worried about how far Brad’s eagerness to please would extend.

 

They’d never done more than kiss. Patrice once, high off a 5-2 win over the Predators, his first game back from injury, in which he’d scored twice, had pulled Brad’s shirt to the side and sucked a hickey onto his collar bone, but that was really as far as they’d ever gone.

 

Patrice being injured had made him unavailable for some of the post-game kissing, and a green little monster inside him worried that maybe when he wasn’t there Brad was finding someone else to kiss. He still didn’t really know _why_ Brad had decided this thing after all, and Patrice might just be option #1 of several options.

 

The first home game Patrice had been injured for, moody and angry and desperately wanting to be out on the ice instead of watching from his couch at home, he’d been greeted with his doorbell ringing late after the game had ended.

 

Brad had walked in unceremoniously and kissed Patrice. Patrice ignored the fact that Brad’s hair was still wet from the shower he must have taken post game, and that despite the fact that it was late, it was early enough that Brad must have left basically immediately after the game to come here, to come to Patrice. He especially ignored the way Brad handled the area around his ribs, gentle in a way he wasn’t normally.

 

He liked kissing Brad, and he liked winning, and over time those two things had become synonymous. Brad’s lips tasted like victory, and Patrice had always chased wins to the ends of the earth.

 

Complicating the arrangement by associating the kissing with his burning desire to hold Brad down and date the fuck out of him would be stupid.

 

.

 

Patrice is exhausted. Losing in general was tiring, and losing the first game at home was worse.

 

He knew not only that they could come back, but that they would come back. But fuck if he wasn’t tired anyways.

 

Showers normally helped him come back down, adjust a little, but today he’s too on edge for even that to work.

 

He’s sliding on sweats when he sees Brad across the room, the irritable look on his face that he gets after they lose. Patrice wants, not for the first time, to kiss him even though that’s not the protocol.

 

He shoves that aside, reminds himself why he can’t, and tosses his stuff in his bag to go to his car. He’s halfway down the hallway before he realizes that Brad is only a couple steps behind him, and he slows down so he can catch up.

 

They walk in amicable silence until they get to their cars, next to each other as usual.

 

Brad puts a comforting hand on Patrice’s shoulder, “We’ll get ‘em next time, Bergy. Promise.”

 

And he looks so fucking earnest like he wants nothing more in the world than to make Patrice feel better about the loss, and Patrice is so fucking tired from losing and from holding back his want, and when Brad leans in, he kisses desperately.

 

It’s different than usual, Patrice bringing a hand up to cup Brad’s cheek, hold him in place softly while he kisses him slow.

 

The second the reasonable part of his brain catches up, admittedly taking a few minutes, he pulls away. He scans Brad’s expression for any sign of being upset or uncomfortable or unsure.

 

He doesn’t see any, in fact Brad’s face is threatening a smile, which is downright cheery for post-loss. Patrice can’t help the way his heart stutters in his chest, and he allows himself to think just for a moment, that maybe Brad wants him even when they lose.

 

“That’s the spirit Berge, treat it like a win. Don’t need to get upset.”

 

Which. Patrice probably should have expected. He pulls Brad in again and kisses him rough this time, but pushes him away after. Patrice really needed to stop this thing, whatever it was, because it was fucking with his head, and it wasn’t fair to Brad that Patrice was getting so much out of this. It felt like taking advantage in a way that was heavy in his gut.

 

Brad, to his credit, seems a bit perplexed by Bergy’s roughness, but just grins and gets into his car. Patrice watches him drive away before getting into his own.

 

Patrice isn’t feeling tired anymore, and sleep is hard to pin down until eventually his physically exhausted body overwhelms him and he falls into a fitful rest.

 

.

 

On Saturday they win, and Patrice is happy about it, but he knows he should be delighted, should be singing and whooping, but he doesn’t have it in him.

 

He’s going to tell Brad he can’t do this anymore he’s really going to, but Brad finds him first.

 

He pulls Patrice over behind a row of lockers, a common place for them now.

 

“We did it Bergy, we did it. Your fucking goal was so fucking beautiful, fuck,” and he’s kissing Patrice, and what would be the harm with one last kiss.

 

If it’s going to be the last though, he wants it to be good.

 

When Brad pulls away, even more flushed and happy than before, Patrice realizes he might have a harder time breaking this off than he thought.

 

.

 

They lose their first game in Toronto and win the second. Patrice doesn’t score in either of them, too on edge to make the final connection happen.

 

When Brad finds him at their hotel for a kiss, he doesn’t bother trying to resist. He grabs Brad’s hair when he kisses him, thinking he needs to feel it one last time.

 

.

 

Patrice’s goal drought continues, but Brad- fuck. He keeps them alive in Toronto scoring twice. Patrice doesn’t know if he’s ever been more gorgeous than he is after that game.

 

That night Patrice breaks the golden rule of their arrangement; he initiates. He finds Brad as soon as he can, pulls him into a storage closet and kisses him.

 

“I’m so fucking,” he punctuates his words with kisses, “proud of you. Thank you, thank you, thank you”

 

Brad looks fucking ecstatic with the praise, and god Patrice has never loved him more. He wants to tell him that, want to tell him he loves him so fucking badly and-

 

“Had to get a win, yeah? Missed your lips,” Brad says.

 

And Patrice remembers that all he is to Brad is someone to kiss. He nods, smiles along to the joke like he gets it, and if he dry heaves when he’s alone in the shower that night, it’s no one’s business but his own.

 

.

 

In game seven, Patrice gets a goal. Right at the end, when it doesn’t even matter anymore, but Brad is the first one to skate to him after.

 

“We’re alive!! We’re alive!!” he screams as the crowd screams the end of the game.

 

Brad waits for a while to try to get Patrice alone. He just walks with Bergy out to his car and stops him before he can get in.

 

When Brad starts to lean in though, Patrice finally gets the strength to put a hand on his chest.

 

Brad looks confused, “Bergy?”

 

“I can’t keep doing this anymore, Brad. It’s clear we’re not on the same page.”

 

“I-what?”

 

Patrice decides to just lay it all out on the line, “You can’t kiss someone you’re in love with and not have it mean something!”

 

Brad’s mouth hangs open a second, eyes going wide with realization, “You can, you can, I promise.”

 

Brad is asking him to push his feelings aside and kiss him anyways, and for what? So, Brad can get his rocks off after a win? It’s not fair of him. Patrice loves him so fucking much, but it just isn’t fair.

 

He explodes, “Fuck, Brad, I’m not your toy! You can’t just move me the way you want me and ignore my emotions. I have to, I have to go.”

 

Brad is crying, and Patrice hates it, he hates it so much. But he has to do this if he has any self preservation at all.

 

“I’m sorry, Brad. I’m sorry I ruined this,” and Patrice can feel a tear hit his lips.

 

He leaves before he can make this worse.

 

.

 

All the media is talking about is how little time there is before the next game, their first against Columbus. It feels like an eternity to Patrice. He spends as much time as possible alternating between the bed and the shower.

 

Brad’s eyes filled with tears, Brad asking him to make it work, Brad, Brad, Brad won’t leave his fucking thoughts for a second. Patrice throws up and knows it isn’t because he’s sick.

 

He can tell Brad isn’t feeling great either. He doesn’t get a goal, and neither does Brad, they send shot after shot after shot at Bobrovsky and thank whatever god brought Charlie Coyle home.

 

Brad comes up to him after the game (it is a win Patrice supposes, it’s practically instinct by now), asks, “Can we talk tonight? Please?”

 

Patrice nods, not knowing why, but lets Pasta drag him away readily. He takes his time getting his stuff together, knowing that Brad’s waiting for him, but not quite ready for whatever discussion is about to happen.

 

Brad tells him “my place” and that’s all the words they speak before they get into their separate cars and drive.

 

Brad beats him there because he’s fast and reckless on roads he knows well which makes something in Patrice’s stomach flip every time Brad takes a corner too fast, but he doesn’t mention anything about it.

 

Even as they walk up to the step, it’s silent in a way it has never been for them, ever, and Patrice feels sick to his stomach because he’s really gone and ruined the best thing in his life in every way.

 

Brad breaks the silence first, “So, uh. I guess I owe you an apology.”

 

Bergy stares directly to the corner of the ceiling, willing his lip not to tremble.

 

“It’s just, fuck Bergy, I mean, come on. You’re so nice and funny, and god you’re so fucking talented it’s not even funny. You play through injuries even though it’s stupid, but you’re horrified when anyone else tries to do the same. And you’re fucking hot too. I mean, Patrice your fucking face. We play hockey, you’re not supposed to have a face that amazing. But I’m getting carried away. What I’m trying to say is, well- you’re just so pretty after a win. You get this twinkle in your eye because you’re fucking competitive, you love winning, and I guess something in me just finally wanted to do something about it. But you’re right, it wasn’t fair to do that to you when I knew I was putting it a lot more weight in it than you were.”

 

Brad is making no sense at all. Everything he just said sounds like a love confession for god’s sakes, and doesn’t he understand it was Patrice who put too much weight into their kissing.

 

Patrices breaths out an, “Oh.”

 

Brad laughs, but its humorless, an ache in it that Patrice wants to smooth out.

 

“I- Brad, I. Think we might have a bit of a misunderstanding. That stuff I said yesterday- about kissing someone you’re in love with- I was talking about myself. I was talking about how I’m in love with you, and I loved kissing you, but it was killing me because I can’t do things by halves. I couldn’t kiss you and not tell you I loved you.”

 

Brad is crying again and Patrice’s brain short circuits, wanting to fix it, wanting to stop making Brad cry so goddamn much.

 

But Brad looks up at him, a soft look in his eyes, “So we’re in love with each other then?”

 

“Guess so.”

 

Brad laughs again, but this one doesn’t have that hollow tone, “Fuck we’re dumb.”

 

“Yeah kinda,” Patrice says and leans in and breaks the rules again, kissing Brad.

 

When they break apart Brad asks, “Is it better now? Kissing when everything is out on the table?”

 

“Well, it still tastes like winning.”

 

Brad’s eyes twinkle with mirth but a hint of confusion, and Patrice will explain it all to him one day, he will, but not tonight. Tonight he just wants to forget about all the misconceptions and mistakes and kiss the man he’s in love with.

 

Patrice holds Brad and knows that come what may- wins or losses- he’ll still get to keep kissing him for as long as he wants. (Although Patrice really hopes it’s wins)

**Author's Note:**

> Not edited closely because I was trying to get this out before the game tonight!! Hope you like it, and leave a comment down below if you did! Follow me on tumblr @abellyofjellywrites


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